


Mistralian Martini; Shaken, not Stirred

by KaliYugaFan



Category: RWBY
Genre: A whole fucking LOT of James Bond References, Basically just every spy movie cliche, Everybody is aged up just a smidgen, Exploring all sorts of kinks because I'm a goddamn degenerate, F/M, Gen, I don't think I write non-harem stories at this point, James Bond References, Multi, Other, Probably a harem?, Semi-lewd?, Who am I kidding it's definitely a harem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaliYugaFan/pseuds/KaliYugaFan
Summary: A Mistralian Intelligence Officer is many things. He is cunning, resourceful, tenacious, talented with a number of weapons as well as unarmed combat. He is trained in all manners of diplomacy and infiltration, and he never stops until his mission is done. Now, one MI6 Agent will face his hardest mission yet: not strangling these dumb Beacon brats. All in a day's work for one Agent Jaune Arc.
Relationships: Jaune Arc/Everyone, Neptune Vasilias/Reese Chloris, Ruby Rose/Sun Wukong
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. A Fate Worse Than Paperwork?

A/N: Wanted to do something fun and not too serious with everybody's favorite punching bag/self insert/Miles Luna's biggest failure in life. Does it count as an overused trope if I'm being perfectly self-aware? In part, this is to get my mind off DxD content that I'm not feeling super inclined to work on this week. In another, smaller but arguably more heartfelt, part this is because absolutely nothing pisses off a very """specific""" part of the FNDM (you know damn well which kinds of fans I'm talking about, it rhymes with "shuri yippers" and used to rule over a site that practically no longer exists) more than portraying Jaune in anything even remotely resembling a positive view, especially if it involves any of their precious waifus. Also, because Secret Agent Cardin Winchester just doesn't sound the same and I'm not good at writing NTR.

So, yeah. We're doing spy shenanigans. We're doing oddly specific orders for copious amounts of drinks. We're doing bespoke suits with (ugh) thin lapels that are way too tight to realistically conceal a Walther in a shoulder holster. (looking at you Daniel Craig!) And hopefully, Ms. Nikos doesn't go the way of all the other Bond Girls.

Here's what we're not doing. Numbers. Stats. Gamer-esque character sheets. Who's got time for any of that nerd bullshit anyways? Certainly not me, I didn't get a B.S. in Mathematics so I could crunch numbers. I got a B.S. in Mathematics (and one in Econ!) so I could write Gigachad!Jaune shooting bad guys and pounding gin on the internet for the amusement of horny strangers with more kinks than common sense. We're operating purely on "Rule of Cool" and to a much smaller extent "Rule of Whatever Kali Feels Like Shoehorning Into The Plot" here. If you can explain why you want to do what you want to do, and if it doesn't absolutely shatter the plot, fuck it bud, why not?

So, sit back, relax, put on your favorite Bond Theme, grab your martini glass, and let's go save the world and have sex with literally every female character of note at least once. Especially the ones with the most vocal shippers.

~~......................................................................................................................................................................................................................~~

They say there comes a moment in every man's life where the odds are so stacked against his favor, the situation so dire, that all he wants to do is fuck off to a remote farm and never interact with society again. Well, I'm pretty sure that moment for me is right now. Or more accurately, approximately three hours ago up until right now. The location? My painfully small office cubicle, in scenic (read: shitty) Mistral. The occasion? Paperwork. Let me tell you something. I've faced down hordes of Beowolves, wrestled with Ursa Majors, infiltrated White Fang bases. For Oum's sake, I even took down a Nuckelavee once, though that was with over a dozen other operatives and I still wake up with phantom soreness on rainy days from it. But paperwork? Over two dozen pages to be filled out, in triplicate, delivered to the office of the head of Huntsman Intelligence Section Six by noon today. I'm not even halfway done yet, and it's already almost 11. Why on Remnant did I take this job?

Ah, I should probably back up a bit here. Introductions are important, at least that's what Mom always says. Oum knows I won't argue with her on that, or really anything. Terrifying woman, she is. Of course, she had to be, what with raising seven kids and taking care of the lovable oaf of a Huntsman (her words, again I will not argue) that she calls my dad. I can't begrudge her that, she did a Hell of a job, or at least I like to think so. Sapphron would probably disagree, but she's off in Argus doing who knows what (I know exactly what, and yes it was traumatizing to see at the age of 10) with her wife Terra and their baby boy.

So, I guess I should probably introduce myself and stop meandering, huh? There's... not too much to say, really. I grew up in a little frontier town in north-central Mistral. Mom was a homemaker, a full time mother as the title would suggest. Dad was a Huntsman. Grandpa was a Huntsman. Great-Grandpa was a Huntsman, and Great-Great-Grandpa wasn't a Huntsman, but that's only because they didn't have a job title for it back then. Instead, he spent nine long years fighting in the Great War, killing some poor bastards that looked just like him for King and Country.

Great-great-grandpa came back after the War ended, the ink on the Vytal treaty probably still wet, and set up a little home out in the wilds. Called it Arc's Rest, the cheeky bastard. Fast forward about eighty years and here we are; it's a thriving little town with a couple Huntsmen that keep it safe, plenty of craftsmen and farmers that provide all the settlement needs, and a long line of Arcs that keep a watchful eye. Of course, with Sapphron having moved out and me in Mistral, there's two less Arcs than there were five years ago, but that's semantics really.

Sapphron left before I did, truth be told. I was probably 8, maybe 9? Something like that, I'm sure. Went and packed her bags after she finished her primary schooling and moved to Mistral to attend some big university. Four years later and she leaves again to some city called Argus, just as I'm moving to Mistral. Funny how that works out, huh? I can't blame her though, she's got a lovely wife and a kid now. I keep telling myself that I'll visit them once I get a few weeks off, and I know little Adrian is up and walking now. A not-so-small part of me really wants to be around for when he starts speaking full sentences, and no that is not because I want to be the Cool Uncle that teaches him how to swear like a sailor. Absolutely not, and I'll deny it under pain of death.

Alas, "a few weeks off" isn't much more than a sad joke in my particular line of work. I either get back from a long-term operation with enough wounds to serve as a training dummy for students at Mistral Medical, or I'm so bogged down with paperwork, like now, that I go home well after dark and down a bottle of Vacuoan Rum on my way to the futon. Lovely stuff, those Vacuoans make.

"Arc!" It's a common noise in the office, a sort of feminine howl of rage and hatred that happens to be vocalized as my last name. When you hear that noise, generally speaking, your best bet is to activate your Aura and hide behind a big desk. Not me, though. I'm a big kid (an adult as of a few weeks ago, thank you very much!) and I face my impending death like a man. Just like I do every week.

"Yes, M?" I drawl out, doing my damn best to appear studious and busily working through the paperwork. All too soon, I can hear the quiet and altogether far too terrifying stampede of dainty pumps click-clacking against the marble floor. I do my best to not raise my head, I really do. Sadly, that's not very possible when a faintly wrinkled hand strikes out like a viper, latching two deceptively strong fingers onto my ear and pulling my head up. I wish I could say I bore the pain with a grunt, but I whined like a little bitch, like I do every time. "You will look at me when I am addressing you, young ma- I mean Agent Arc!"

Yeah, that would be my boss, the Rage of Remnant, the Maniac of Mistral, yadda yadda yadda. Her name's M. Well, not really, one letter isn't much of a full name, but everybody in the building calls her M, the Councilmen of Mistral call her M, and I'm sure if she ever got around to kidnapping some poor sap for a hopefully quick and painless lay, they'd probably call her M too. Thank God that hasn't happened.

M's not a big person, though of course if she was I would never point that out; simply not what a gentleman would do. In truth she's a quite diminutive old lady, maybe 5'4 at the most. She's got short white hair, really an even more boyish cut than my own untamed mane of golden locks, and always comes dressed in a clean-cut cream blazer and dark grey pants with black or grey pumps. No ring on her finger, hasn't been that way for longer than I've been alive, and no jewelry save for a small locket around her neck. She is the picture of professionalism, which of course is undercut by the fact that she's yanking my ear around like my mother used to do when I was young and stupid. Now, M is like Mom 2.0, and I'm slightly less young and probably just as stupid. Funny how life works out, huh?

"Sorry, ma'am!" I yelp out, her hand finally letting go of my poor abused ear. "I'll have the reports for the Wind Path operation on your desk within the hour, ma'am!" I snap off an admittedly somewhat shoddy salute, and she simply snorts at that. M snatched the papers off my desk and glanced them over with poorly disguised disdain, before folding them up and tucking them away under her arm.

"We all know you wouldn't get the paperwork in on time, Arc. Fighting, drinking and fraternizing are more your strengths than accounts and balances, you silly boy." Yeah, if you couldn't tell by now, that Mom 2.0 comparison isn't just for show. M's really been like my second mom for years now, if your mom trained you for half a decade in armed combat and is also your boss and/or full-time slavedriver... So yeah, like my second mom, actually.

I just nervously chuckled at her, one traitorous hand going up to rub the back of my head in poorly concealed embarrassment. It's a tic I've had since I was a little kid, and no amount of infiltration training had managed to fully kill it, unfortunately. M notices too, the corners of her lips just barely turning up in what a lesser man would call amusement. I certainly wouldn't call it that, as I'm not trying to get my other ear pulled into oblivion. Tactful silence, it is. Tactful silence that lasts all of five seconds before she huffs, beckoning me to follow after her as she takes short, clipped strides towards her office.

It's much nicer than my cubicle, of course. She's the head of Mistralian Intelligence and has been since before my father even graduated Huntsman school. M is, and probably always has been, damn good at her job, and her office is one of the few public comforts she allows herself to indulge in. Plush carpeting covers the whole space, an enclosed room in comparison to the open floor-plan of the rest of the building I work in. The walls are fairly high, and the whole office is easily ten meters across and another ten deep. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center of the back wall, with a large clock behind where M would sit. The whole ambiance is very "Atlesian Murder Mystery villain" and I'm fairly certain that's just the way she likes it.

"A drink?" She asks, walking around to open one of the many cabinets that cover two walls of the office space. I simply nod thankfully, watching her with a bit of exasperation as she forces herself to stand on tip-toes to reach a beautiful decanter on the top shelf. Why she simply doesn't move everything from that shelf down a space is beyond me, but I'm sure it has something to do with pride. Admitting that she's a tiny woman probably rankles, and Oum knows M is strong enough to deal with a bit of reaching up for tall spaces.

It takes a few seconds for her to bring the decanter back to the desk, pulling a pair of rocks glasses that she soon after fills with the amber liquid. There's about three fingers of Argus Reserve in each glass, a healthy pour to be sure. There's a subtle sweetness to it, with notes of oak and vanilla, and in far too short a time the glass is empty, M's coming down to smack the desk soon after mine. "Delicious, as always. Your taste in liquor is second to none, M." I speak after a moment, a genuine smile stretching across my face.

"You flatter me too soon, Arc." She replies, sitting down with a huff. "You might regret that in a few minutes." Oh, what's this?

"Is something the matter, ma'am? I, eh, really wasn't joking about the paperwork, I can promise you I'll get that finished within the hour." It would be an hour of unadulterated pain, but I certainly could do it, should I put my mind to it. M simply shakes her head, letting out a long-drawn sigh that I hardly ever hear out of her. What exactly is going on here?

"I've got a bit of an assignment for you, actually. No, don't look so happy yet," she bites out with more venom than usual as my smile widens, and then shortly fades away, looking closer to her actual age than I've seen in a long time. "It's long-term. You could call it a vacation if it'll make you feel any better, but we both know those don't exist. You'll be in the field for seven months, up to a year or longer if the conditions require it." That's not particularly new; when I was 15 and a freshly minted member of the Agency, I had often gone on missions that stretched for a season at a time.

"What's the catch here, M?" I ask, respectfully clasping my hands behind my back as I stand at alert, gazing inquisitively towards her. She sighs again, probably a record for a single day at this point, and pushes forward a thin manila folder across the desk. M nods at me, signalling that I should take a look. I do... and yet I can't understand a word of it.

"You... want me to do what, exactly? Is this some kind of joke, M?" The older woman simply shakes her head, letting out the kind of resigned huff that's usually reserved for the Mistralian Council, sudden sicknesses or tax season. "You and I both know that it's anything but, Arc. You leave within a week. Pack whatever you need, there'll be a Bullhead and tickets for a red-eye flight sent to your desk. Rendezvous with the Headmaster will be at 8AM in ten days; he'll have further instructions but we simply know that he's in need of your Semblance in particular. An apartment has been provided, and we'll be setting up short-range communications with the local office hopefully within two weeks. If it makes you feel any better, I heard Vale is lovely this time of year."

I don't think I've ever said this out loud before, but I'm sorely tempted to tell M that she's a real frigid bitch right about now.

~~......................................................................................................................................................................................................................~~

A/N: That's all for the intro!


	2. OSHA Violations and Red-Eye Flights

Three Days Later

When I was seven years old, I rode on a airship for the first time. My dad took the whole family, all ten of us including little baby Iris, a newborn at the time, on a week-long trip into Mistral's capital, my current home. I remember it pretty fondly; Iris was as peaceable as a baby could be, not crying or fussing overly much. Saphron was in her junior year of high school at the time, a moody 17 year old with all that that entailed, but even she wasn't making a scene every other occasion that she could. It was... nice, calm in a way that living in a home constantly crammed full of people, in a town that practically worshiped your last name, simply never was.

Of course, there were complications. I mean, what family trip goes perfectly? The minute the airship took off, I was green to the gills, and a lesser man would have probably denied this, but I puked like a dying man for the entire duration of the trip. Seven hours of flight, seven long, humiliating hours. I still wake up with nightmares about that first time, the faces of poorly concealed pity directed at me from my sisters, my parents, and even other passengers on the flight. I spent that seven hours barely able to see said faces, of course; I was stooped over a toilet-bowl or headfirst into a paper bag almost the entire time. That was the trip that we learned I had terrible motion sickness when up in the air.

Mom, the angel that she is, spent our first day in Mistral City going from pharmacy to pharmacy looking for solutions to it. I'm not terribly surprised that what she found wasn't effective, but the thought counted, and I could tell that she was genuinely worried for me. It's been over a decade since then, and the issue still hasn't been fixed, per se. Oh sure, I can handle flights without my stomach rising up through my throat and my lunch going out the end it initially came in, but it's still not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. Flights, I guess they just suck for me.

Why am I talking about flights, you may ask? Well, to put it succinctly enough, I'm currently on one. Now, I know what you're going to think, but it's not quite that simple. When I say I'm on a flight, I mean that in a fairly literal sense; I am hanging rather precariously on top of a flying vehicle. No, it's not because I couldn't afford economy, thank you very much. My job pays well. It just happens to pay well enough that I acquiesce to missions that involve clawing my way with Aura-enhanced fingers onto the hull of a bullhead, currently cruising at an altitude of 35,000 feet in the sky. The air up here is incredibly thin, obviously, and if it weren't for the atmospheric mask and thick flight-suit that I'm currently wearing, even my Aura wouldn't be able to protect me from the elements.

It's a rather ingenious suit, a big middle finger to the lab coats over in Atlas that think they have a monopoly on bleeding edge tech. Full adaptation to over a dozen atmospheric and dangerous weather conditions, thin dust-powered exoskeleton "bones" that cover my arms and legs and allow me to more easily move around with the turbulence and associated nastiness, and most importantly a compact but fully serviceable parachute with auxiliary thrusters on my elbows and feet, ready to deploy and guide me to safety if I need to jump. With the way this final mission before I head to Beacon seems to be going, I'm afraid that may be more than just a shitty possibility.

It started out easily enough; the Mistralian Council suspected that the plane I'm currently dangling off one side of was housing weaponry that went against Page Who Knows of the Treaty of I Don't Care signed in Some Year That Really Doesn't Matter. The important info? Plane. Bad Guys. Weapons. Pretty simple stuff for a pretty simple guy like myself. M had briefed me on the mission-relevant specifics yesterday, and I'm set to meet with her one final time in two days. After that, I get two days to pack my bags and I'm off to Vale to rendezvous with Headmaster Ozpin to see what all this Beacon business is about.

The operation itself started nearly twelve hours ago, at the ass-crack of dawn because of course the Gods hate me and won't ever allow me a full night of rest. I had woken up, donned the simple charcoal suit and black tie that I wore to work every day, picked up the bag that M had delivered to my office and been off. The first step was reconnaissance, as it always is. Four hours spent staking out the tiny airport that the bullhead had been set to take off from. It was a good hour or two out of Mistral City proper, not quite far enough to be considered the countryside but certainly away from any major settlements. I arrived at 7AM, and there were perhaps half a dozen bullheads stationed in total; it wasn't small enough to be considered a private airstrip but certainly no major business came through here. From what I could tell, mostly budget airlines and small shipping packages came in and out. In short, it was the luckiest place to get a shipment of weaponry out of the city without attracting unwanted attention. Unluckily for them, I'm the very tenacious sort of unwanted attention, and I don't leave the trail once I've caught a scent of foul play.

Within the first two hours, I had spotted several armed men entering the airstrip and leaving through back-doors. Their uniforms were fairly close to what the security would wear, but I haven't been an amateur for years now, and the subtle tells of shoes that were still carrying some dirt and an extra number of bags along their sides told a different story. Security for the airstrip wouldn't be going in and out often enough to have grime on their footwear, and simple guards would have carried a sidearm and a baton for dealing with basic disturbances, not the heavy bags at their sides that most likely denoted long rifles or shotguns. There was definitely something fishy here, and I intended to find out what.

The second clue came towards the end of my stake-out. A Gorilla Faunus strode in, flanked by two other Faunus on either side. I'm not a small man by any means, but he would have easily towered over me, almost 7 feet in height. The group of five was dressed rather inconspicuously, heavy wool coats for the coming cold months and dark grey trousers tucked into calf-high black boots. A bit stiff and perhaps too military for the regular person, but not exactly rare. Remnant wasn't a forgiving place, and it sure as hell wasn't full of forgiving men. I simply watched them walk past, noting how one of the four guards had kept his hand close to his hip the entire time. An open door and a gust of wind later and his secret was revealed, a momentary glimpse of his firearm peaking out the side of his hip before he pulled his coat close to him. Naughty, naughty; you know you can't bring toys like that onto a plane, Mr. Suspicious Faunus Man. Wait, fuck, that sounds sort of racist...

Regardless, I knew I had to get to wherever they were heading. The nice thing about going to common places in a suit and walking like you know exactly where you're supposed to be is that the average security guard doesn't really react to you moving around. A quick flash of my doctored ID, courtesy of M as always, and I was taking unhurried strides towards a back-door that I had seen the "security" using rather frequently, while the real security slowly but surely closed down the airstrip and evacuated civilians. Time to figure out what sort of evil shenanigans are afoot.

I opened the door rather loudly, drawing attention to myself in a way that I'm certain would have M pounding her head against a table. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! How's the packing coming along?" I said in lieu of announcement, noting with thinly veiled amusement that about half of the people had done their best to appear inconspicuous and continued to pack up the big wooden crates in the back of the room, while the other half had "jumped the gun," so to say... by literally drawing their guns and aiming them right at me. Always nice to know I'm dealing with morons, I suppose. I put my hands up slowly, palms facing the crowd in as non-threatening a manner as I can convey, letting a lazy sort of grin stretch across my face. "Oh, no need for any sort of violence, boys. I'm just the OSHA Inspector, heard there was some misuse of forklifts happening in the back."

"Kill him!" One of the four Faunus guards from earlier snarled, dumping half a magazine in my general direction. This seemed to be the impetus for everybody else to join in, the aforementioned first group also joining in as they drew their guns and opened fire. I simply stood my ground, not moving an inch as the bullets pinged rather uselessly around my body. Ah, Aura, I do love you so. It took a full five seconds for the warehouse full of morons to stop firing, kicking up a whirlwind of dust (thankfully not Dust) and wood-chips. Once the air cleared, they simply saw me, a veritable hill of spent and flattened bullets, and a thin white light separating us. I have to say, the look on their faces right now is really working wonders for my health.

"My turn," I simply state, jumping into action not a moment later. A slight compression at the thin cuffs at each of my shirt sleeves unfurls a set of light body armor, wrapping around my frame as it mechshifts from the suit of a gentleman of repute to the suit of a knight. A very modern looking knight, given the kevlar and stab-proof sheets surrounding me as opposed to big hunks of steel plate, but a knight nonetheless. I call this Lorica Segmentata; designed it myself with some help from the lovely lads over at R&D. From the neck down, I'm practically impervious to most conventional rifle calibers and bladed weapons, and with my Aura augmenting the plates, the impact of Dust rounds is substantially lessened as well. They wanted to add a helmet that would shift upwards from my collar, but everyone knows that takes away from the aesthetic appeal. Helmets are for mooks and pansies. Also, I get ridiculously bad hat hair.

As I wade into the sea of bodies, I lash out with hands and feet, small and quick motions delivered with the explosiveness of years of training. I don't hit hard and I don't over-extend to get more force; quite the opposite. I fight as conservatively as possible. M always told me efficiency and durability wins fights, and her advice hasn't failed me yet. Knee kicks, elbow thrusts, ankle sweeps, short punches and grapples are my bread and butter. The first few come in rather haphazardly, clearly not trained to coordinate in a fight. One goes down almost instantly, an aura-enhanced knee caving his pelvis and likely intestinal organs in with a sickening squelch. The second swings in with a wild haymaker, brandishing a knife that I'm sure he thinks he can stick in my neck. I catch him at the elbow, leaning in to deliver a short jab to his jugular. Neck, crushed; he goes down like a sack of potatoes shortly after. The third is just barely smarter than the first two, letting off a few shots from his pistol as he backs away to gain space. I simply follow after him, taking one large stride forward as my hand lashes out and grasps around the handle of his gun, wrenching it away from me. My second hand comes in immediately after, doubling him over as I drive a fist into his gut.

With his gun held in one hand and his body rag-dolled over my fist, I twist the mook around, using his own firearm to pepper the rest of the crowd. They seem to be catching on rather quickly, and I'm only able to put down three more bodies before the rest have ducked and dived under machines or furniture, trying to gain safety. Sounds good in practice, but to me it's practically nothing. I dump the man I'm holding, his pistol clicking empty as I do, and take a massive lunge forwards. Aura can do incredible things, the least of which involve jumping damn near five meters in the air and coming down like a meteor.

The concrete is cracked and shattered like a spiderweb as I land, dust flying even further into the air. They're smart enough to still shoot at me, but not quite smart enough to realize it won't do very much against my Aura, or my suit. It takes a few minutes, but eventually all that's left is myself, three of the original four guards, the gorilla Faunus, and about a dozen corpses between us. "Yeah, I'm really going to have to send in a complaint after this, you guys aren't OSHA compliant at all!" I simply grin, breathing somewhat hard after the fight. Two of the three remaining guards come in to attack, while the third and the gorilla Faunus rush out the back, the third guard running backwards as he continues to spray bullets at me from his sub machine-gun.

These two are substantially harder to fight than the run of the mill mooks I was putting down. They're clearly trained fighters, and worse yet trained as a pair; they move so fluidly that one would think they were extensions of the same mind, two limbs connected to one body. Two limbs currently brandishing mechshifting spear-rifles, how fucking lovely. The first comes in low, his pole-arm sweeping towards my legs, while the second shifts his weapon to firearm form, sending a Dust round my way. My response was to jump back, just barely avoiding the edge of the spear as I lean into a crouch to escape the bullets. The dust round impacts a few feet above and behind me, and I can feel the intense heat of Fire Dust licking at my back. Not great conditions for an enclosed space, they'll either get to me or take so long that Mr. Gorilla (again, that sounds a little bit racist, I'm sorry) and the final guard can escape with the crates already loaded onto the bullhead.

I have to get serious now; no more time for games. "Alright, fuck it." I reach behind myself, a thin rectangular box coming loose from the back of my armor with a pneumatic hiss. It unfolds rapidly, the sides opening and expanding as they unfurl into a grey kite shield four feet high and two and a half feet at its widest. From the top of the shield I draw a hilt, the blade of a long-sword similarly jettisoning out until my main weapon is fully extended to a length of four feet. This is my main weapon, Crocea Mors.

It's been in my family since even before great-great-grandpa fought in the war, and the changes made since have been incredibly minimal. In fact, the only thing I've really done to it was allowing the blade to shift out from the hilt, allowing the sheath-shield to take up slightly less space than usual. Well, that and a few Dust upgrades, but my parents still haven't found out about those and I'd really like to keep it that way. Criminals talk too, you know? Who knows what they could say in a cell that would somehow, inevitably get back to my mother.

The second of the guards steps forward, taking careful aim as he lets loose half a dozen well-placed shots of Dust rounds towards my center mass. Thanks to Crocea Mors, I'm able to angle them upwards, great gouts of flame bursting towards the ceiling and definitely scaring the shit out of anyone unlucky enough to have not left the building by now. The first guard is quick to follow, smashing at full speed with his spear against my shield. I buckle, and take a step back, before I manage to push him off with a great heave. Unfortunately, that opened my side up to the sharpshooter, and I'm sent flying back after he manages to hit me twice with Dust rounds.

I smashed into the side of a wall, nearly going right through it, and I'm hard-pressed to regain my wits as both guards come in, keeping me on the defensive and certainly quite dazed from the hit. The armor does a great job of mitigating the real damage, as does my monstrously large Aura, but it still hurts no matter what. A few more seconds of this cat-and-mouse game of dodging later and I suddenly lean forwards, going on the offensive for the first time since I downed all those grunts.

Crocea Mors swings out, the Aura-enhanced blade cleanly shattering through the barrel of the rifle, before I dart in and bash him with my shield. As he's stumbling back, definitely nursing a broken nose, I pivot on my back foot and barely manage to parry the spear, driving the tip of my shield into the concrete directly behind me as my senses scream danger. Not a moment too soon, as I hear the dull thud of bullets, regular rounds thank Oum, hitting my shield. As the spear-wielder darts back in for a quick jab, I manage to flow around his attack, my now-free hand latching out to trap his arm at the armpit, squeezing mercilessly until I can hear his shoulder pop and dislocate. Crocea Mors is quick to follow, and a moment later the guard's head is cleanly separated from his shoulders, what minimal Aura he had utterly smashed through with my breaking of his arm.

I twist back wildly, my hair damp with sweat and my eyes wild as I take in the bleeding guard behind me. He's fallen since letting off those last few bullets, and I think he may be concussed after my rather savage shield bash. This one can stay alive for questioning. "End of the road, pal." I spit out, a twist of my wrist unfurling a set of small Gravity Dust-powered bolas that tie him up rather nicely. A quick punch to the temple and he's out cold.

"Fuck, I can't miss that plane," I mutter, mostly to myself. Now that the room is cleared, I rush into a quick jog, turning around the corner just in time to see the bullhead begin to take off. Absolutely fucking not. Another compression on the thin wristbands I wear activates the atmospheric suit, my armor shifting once again as the servos whir and twist into place. There's a grappling hook of sorts that comes with the suit, more like a staple gun with a thin steel line attached to the projectile, but it's what I've got, and it's what I use, aiming carefully as I embed the "hook" several inches deep into the metal hull of the bullhead. The line becomes taut in no time, the bullhead rising lazily and taking off, with me dangling about thirty feet below it. God I fucking hate this job sometimes.

Well, this still beats a red-eye to Vale, right?

A/N: Part two of this mission comes next, and then the flight to Beacon! Plot-related shenanigans! Flirting with older women! Getting involved in Dust Robberies! As always, please read and review; it means the world to hear your feedback.


	3. Improvised Landings, Ruined Relaxation

For the record, hanging out of a moving vehicle is pretty nauseating after a few minutes under the best of circumstances. Dangling off the side of a moving vehicle nearly 7 miles up in the air can be best described as "heinous." The wind alone would be enough to blind and choke me if not for the atmospheric suit that Lorica Segmentata provided, and the thin claws extending from the exoskeleton are quite literally all that keep me from becoming the world's largest failed egg drop, Aura or not. The whole suit is powered by thin lines of grafted Lightning Dust, which generally speaking is an absolute bitch to maintain, but now I couldn't be more thankful for them.

A grunt and a rather sloppy swing of my claws is all it takes to step, or rather crawl, forward. It takes me a few minutes to work my way up to the top of the bullhead, just a few meters behind where the pilots would sit. If I time this just right...

A ha! I drop in right at the juncture between cockpit and storage, rising from the impromptu crouch that I had thrown myself in. The final guard, unfortunately enough, is right behind me, moving in with admirable swiftness and locking his arms around my neck in a textbook triangle choke. I struggle for a few seconds, his burly arms applying incredible pressure against my throat, before bucking my hips and dropping to my knees simultaneously, using my Aura to turn what would have been a snapped neck into bodily throwing him against the side of the plane. The guard impacts the wall that separates cockpit and storage with a deafening crash, almost immediately trying to get back to his feet. Not so fucking fast!

I jump in, exploding from my kneeling position to land on him knees-first, driving the wind out of the downed guard for a second time. With the exoskeleton still activated, all it takes is a quick application of pressure before my "claws" are embedded past his Aura and straight through his throat. The corpse, because that's definitely what he is now, is rather gruesome even by my workplace standards, his neck absolutely mangled and the spinal column all that keeps his head atop his shoulders. Even that doesn't look too sturdy; those claws go deep.

I huff, catching my breath for what may be the first time since this whole mess started. The aches go deep, and even with my admittedly quite impressive Aura capacity, it's not particularly soothing or relaxing to be thrown around a warehouse, climb a flying plane and get choked half to death before noon. This two days of paid leave better be fucking worth it; maybe I'll go visit Sanctum and see how little Jade is doing. She should be in her... second year? Wait, no, third. Oum, time really flies when you don't have a social life, huh? Of course, knowing M, I'll be sent off to Haven to make sure those two chuckle-fucks from our brother agency haven't bungled anything major yet instead of a chance to see my middle sister. Not much of an undercover operation when your team and your leader have the same Oum-damned name, is it? Fucking rookies, I swear.

Alright, break time's over; back to business. I creak my neck, working out what little stiffness remains from the triangle choke earlier, and stride in, a powerful kick making light work of the door leading to the cockpit. "Anybody want some drinks?" I bellow, lashing out with a rapidly expanding Crocea Shield to the throat to knock one pilot out cold. The other is in a bit of a tight spot, and in a morbid way I sort of feel bad for the guy. I mean, really; it's not like he can get up and just not pilot the bullhead, right? Not like there's another pilot to handle that anymore, though of course I may have had something to do with that. Whoops. "Listen, friend, just point me out to where your buddy King Kong is at, okay?" He's trembling, one shaking hand pointing back to the storage area. "Thank you." I give him a low bow, hearing more than seeing the relief apparent on his face by the way he exhales, before turning back and sending a donkey kick straight to his temple. Goodnight pilots!

Alright, so if I was a big Gorilla Faunus, where would I be hiding? Well, there's a small section of empty seats. There's a plane bathroom with the door clearly open. And, of course, there's a bunch of crates with tarps thrown over. "You can come out now, Professor Bobo. The circus just left town, they didn't want to take you with them." I deadpan, watching with a rather bored expression as the absolutely massive Gorilla Faunus throws off the tarp concealing him... and a dust-powered LMG. "Are you fucking insane?" I scream, ducking to the side as he lets out a war cry and opens fire, reducing the few chairs and wooden crates thus far to splinters and kindling in seconds. Even with my Aura up, that many rounds in that short of time is going to chip through my defenses sooner or later. A few make their way past and impact against my shield, sending pangs of throbbing pain into my shield arm. The moment of distraction costs me, as one rather lucky bullet grazes my torso, a hiss of agony all that comes from my voice as bullet shards tear into Lorica Segmentata and carve a thin but freely bleeding furrow across my upper ribs. I really can't take much more of this.

I roll to the other side, plastering my body flush against the side of a metal crate, wincing with each dull thud of a round impacting steel. Thank Monty those aren't Dust Rounds! Even over the whine of the LMG I can hear the Gorilla Faunus stepping closer, each ponderous plod of his boots bringing him nearer and nearer to me. After a few seconds, the whir of the bullets flying ceases, and I can hear him cursing and muttering as he detaches the box magazine, no doubt rifling through the crate for another. The good news is that with all the dust and flying debris, not to mention the sound of the cabin depressurizing, he hasn't quite realized I'm scantly feet away. The bad news is that he definitely just found another box magazine, judging by the telltale click and the whirring of barrels. Now or never!

I turn around, planting both feet square against the side of the metal crate. The Gorilla Faunus sees my head poking out, whipping the heavy gun over to bear, but it's too late. With a grunt of exertion and the flexing of both muscle and Aura, I kick out, sending both Faunus and crate flying back. They impact against one side of the cargo plane with a wet splat, and I can tell that even with Aura that can't have felt good. I'm breathing harshly at this point, short pants and wheezes all that come out as I stumble over, both sword and shield of Crocea Mors out and ready to end this charade.

It only takes five or six steps to reach the area of impact, and I stab Crocea Mors cleanly through the crate, the front-most half foot or so going cleanly through both crate and Faunus with the jarring metallic crunch of metal grinding against metal. The Faunus simply groans, blood already leaking copiously from his frame. His chest and upper legs have been wholly crushed by the crate, and if it weren't for his Aura he'd probably be pulped beyond recognition by that last attack. I'm not doing much better, my whole body bruised and my lower torso bloodied. Lorica Segmentata's Exoskeleton has definitely short-circuited at this point, and even if it weren't mangled horribly by that .308, it probably would have run out of juice by now.

The Faunus lets out a hiss of pain as the sword breaks through the crate and deep into his gut, blood bubbling up through his throat and out his mouth in two rivulets. "Long... Live... The White Fang." He croaks out, before raising one fist in a victory salute. A small button is attached to his wrist, and as he compresses it, I can see thin lines of Dust igniting in wires running down his body. This crazy fuck had a suicide vest on!

My eyes widen, a split second all I have as I leap backwards. I've always pushed my Aura to its limits in both training and missions before, but now the sense of urgency has never been greater. My body is sent careening through the half-demolished door to the cockpit, continuing all the way through as I manage to snag the downed but still living pilot. We go further still, my poor back shattering through the glass of the cockpit and out the plane entirely as an eruption rocks the vehicle.

We're in free-fall a moment later, the cargo plane going up in a blaze of glory that both deafens and blinds me. The light, the heat, the sound, it's all too much, and for a moment I can feel myself losing consciousness, the black encroaching on my vision rapidly. No! Absolutely fucking not! With enormous effort, I manage to stay alert, shutting my eyes tightly as I breathe in and out to stabilize myself. It's an old trick the Atlesian Specialists came up with maybe fifty years ago. Cycling Aura through my respiratory system while I take powerful inhales and rapid exhales to stave off the nausea and pain means that I'm able to just barely avoid blacking out.

In a few seconds we're going to hit peak velocity, and I probably won't have a chance to grab the similarly free-falling pilot after that. Crocea Mors darts out, my wrist working overtime to angle the blade just right, catching the flat of the sword against a belt loop and reaching out with the other arm to grab him at the same time, angling his limp body until he's held across my broad back and shoulders. Alright, captive is secured, now to hope that my parachute is still working. I pull against the release mechanism once, twice, thrice. Not good. In the wake of the battle, or more likely the resulting explosion, the parachute isn't deploying properly. The thrusters work, thank Oum, and as they deploy I angle both my elbows and my feet downwards, activating all four auxiliary devices at full level. The effect is rather jarring, as I can feel our bodies slowing down dramatically, though nowhere near enough to help us from free falling. The ground is coming closer rapidly, to the point where if the parachute doesn't deploy, we're toast.

"Oh for fuck's sake, come on, work Oum damn it!" I curse, yanking the parachute deploy mechanism over and over. We're easily at 5,000 feet now, if the altitude meter in my suit is still working. I sure fucking hope it is; much shorter than this and things might get hairy. The thrusters are still working overtime, reducing our speed, but at this point death is still a certainty.

The pilot groans softly, still out cold thankfully. That might just be it! Working as quickly as I can, I limber up his body in mid-air, bringing him down until I'm essentially squeezing the man's body between my elbows and knees in order to still make usage of the auxiliary thrusters. A few moments of blind scrabbling and I'm rewarded with the discovery of an emergency parachute attached to the thin pack on his uniform. A swift prayer to Oum and a rapid tugging on the deploy mechanism, and we are finally floating down. "Oh, fuck me, this was too close. I need a fucking break." The pilot starts to come awake, stirring slightly as his eyes flutter open and he lets out a rasp. "Oh shut up, you." I mutter, reaching behind his neck and pinching a few nerves. Ah, back to peace and quiet. Damn near pissed myself today.

The Next Day 

I have to say, of all the perks that this job provides, access to private facilities with Dust-powered hot tubs are very high up on the list. They're incredible devices, truly Polendina-level ingenuity. What's so special about them, you may ask? Well, it's like a tub of water, right? But, and this is very important, they have jets of hot water that massage your poor muscles. Is that just a standard hot tub? Yes, perhaps. But nothing really counts as "standard" after jumping out of an exploding plane and spending three hours interrogating a bound captive in the middle of a forest, before having to wait another thirty minutes for the auto-driver function on your car to come pick you up. So, in fact, this hot tub is quite special. The fact that it's located at the topmost level of Mistralian Intelligence is just a nice plus. There's a gym one floor down, and I often make usage of both, one after the other. Today, it's just the one.

The jacuzzis themselves are lavish, big enough to comfortably seat up to a dozen adults. The water is incredibly hot, and I'm fairly certain M mentioned adding some sort of mineral to help relax muscles a few months ago. Nothing beats a nice afternoon in one of these devices after a long day of work, and I haven't had many longer than today.

As I close my eyes, leaning back to enjoy the few scant hours of peace and quiet I do have, I can hear a muffled chuckle. That's fine, no big deal. I can still just enjoy the peace... and... nope, the quiet is ruined. Wearily, I crack one eye open, my arms still held up on the sides of the jacuzzi and my body relaxed, the water reaching up to my clavicle. The vision in front of me isn't exactly new by this point; in fact it's quite old, and at this point extremely unwelcome. Yet another stupid antic from the moronic pair over at our so-called "partners in intelligence," the rather stupidly named United Network Command for Law Enforcement, imagine my fucking shock. As usual, I can't enjoy a single thing in life; the Brother Gods truly must hate me.

"What do you two assholes need now? I was trying to enjoy the moment here."

One of the two simply grins wider, a prehensile tail whipping out with incredible accuracy. I've seen him choke men to death with that tail as if it was child's play, but today it's simply snatching my mocha from its spot atop the shelf. Fucking asshole. The other shakes his head, standing outside the tub entirely. He's clothed as he usually is, the finest designer suit (though not quite as nice, I must add with absolutely no smugness whatsoever) and white shirt, with a loosened black tie hanging around his neck. Of course he wouldn't step foot in the water, and of course he wouldn't pull his idiot partner back in line.

"Just going in for a soak, Agent Arc. We Section Two Agents need some downtime too, you know?" The first responds, taking an intentionally loud slurp from the coffee. My coffee. The coffee I paid far too much money at the local StarDust for. The iced mocha that I was planning to enjoy after my soak in the hot tub. It takes a herculean effort to not outright snarl at the cheeky fucker.

"Big assumption of you, George of the Jungle; everybody knows your partner is the one that can speak above a sixth grade level." I bite out, turning to the second, silent as of yet. "So I'll ask again before I have to get up and string up your partner by his tail for interrupting my sacred hot-tub time, Neptune. What. Do. You. And. Sun. Want?"

Oum above, I hate these men from U.N.C.L.E.

..................................................................................................................

A/N: Oh, what's this? I'm bringing in other spy movie universes? Fuck yes I am. In case you didn't get the reference, Neptune and Sun are the Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin of Remnant. They already have this hilarious buddy cop shtick going in RWBY Chibi, and it was just too perfect of an opportunity to pass up. Neptune is definitely more Illya and Sun is definitely more Napoleon, in case that wasn't pretty obvious.

Next chapter: Last one before Beacon! Talks with M and the S and N of SSSN! A certain benefactor makes her appearance! What are the villains up to? Find out!

As always, please read and review.


	4. A Train-Car Named Despair

Sun and Neptune were rather quick on the uptake when I made my displeasure at being denied a chance to soak in the jacuzzi quite clear. What that means in practice is that after Neptune managed to get Sun's body free of the wall I had punted him headfirst halfway through, they were rather quick on the uptake. The aquaphobic man of the pair had simply shaken his head exasperatedly and walked the ten paces or so over to the crumbling wall, grasping tightly at Sun's dangling leg and yanking him free with a quiet grunt and a heave of effort. I stood there, a towel neatly fastened around my waist, idly sipping at my drink as the two morons cleaned themselves up. "So," I started. "What's the deal this time? You two lose another shipment of Dust weapons like last month or something?"

Sun, now very much free of any confining elements such as walls, had the decency to at least look somewhat ashamed; Neptune simply shook his head again, muttering lowly under his breath. These two chuckle-fucks had 'misplaced' a crate the size of a train-car that had been packed full of Dust rounds and high-grade Mistralian rifles, and my unit had been sent in to mop up the mess. Of course, it turned out that the Fang had been involved, and we eventually managed to get the package back, but it was far from the first time these two U.N.C.L.E. agents had royally fucked something up, and certainly not the first time I had been called in to pull their asses out of the fire.

Neptune stood a little bit straighter, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve a Scroll. Wordlessly, he handed it to me, stuffing his hands back into his pockets shortly afterwards. I read the contents quickly, sending the file to my own Scroll once I had skimmed it thoroughly. This... could be troublesome. "You're absolutely sure of this?" I asked, my mouth set in a hard line. Sun looked serious for once, nodding firmly. "M had reached out to us the afternoon you left. We don't have the whole image yet, but since this whole cluster-fuck has crossed Kingdom lines, we're involved now." I pursed my lips, thinking it over. If we were to even have a slight chance of pulling off an operation of this level, everything, and I do mean everything, would have to go according to plan. That, of course, was a complete impossibility.

The three of us stepped out shortly after, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents having told me that we would meet at M's office. I took off at a brisk jog, reaching the changing rooms within seconds. After a short shower and shave, I changed back into my regular uniform. Charcoal grey suit, black tie, white dress shirt and shined black boots. Those silly Huntsmen and Huntresses go for all sorts of colorful clothing, and I can certainly see the point in it. After all, a Huntsman needs to be easily visible, something that ordinary civilians can easily rally around in the wake of a Grimm attack. They're practically celebrities, and they certainly dress the part. Me, on the other hand? Oh sure, I can kill Grimm with the best of them, but that's not my job. I was trained to deal with more... sentient targets. Hence the greys and blacks; wetwork isn't really the place for vibrant blues and greens after all.

Once I had toweled off my hair, still in its stubbornly wild style, and fastened my wristwatch I was off to the elevator, a soft ding preceding my trip up. As usual, the elevators in the Mistralian Intelligence Building are vastly more packed than they had any right to be. I quietly slipped inside, taking a spot towards the front-left corner, opposite the buttons. There were six others in the building, four humans and a Faunus that were clearly paper-pushers. The sixth was a diminutive young Faunus, as evidenced by the gently curling ram horns that poked out of his carefully groomed curls of hair. Nice guy, Roy something? I've worked with him on a handful of occasions; he's the quiet type, very respectful and generally kept to himself. He gave a slight nod towards me, one that I returned.

Within a few minutes, I had exited the elevator and made my way towards M's office. Before I could even knock, she called me in. "Agent Arc, I've been expecting you for the last few minutes. Please, take a seat." Doing as I was told, I entered the room, noticing Sun already sitting down in front of my boss, Neptune idly reclining against the desk a few feet away. Taking a chair, I simply gripped onto the edge, leaning over it as I stared at M. "Agent Arc, reporting for duty ma'am. What's the situation?"

She huffed, sorting through papers for a few moments as she shuffled and reshuffled them into the proper order. Said papers made their way into a manila folder, which was handed to me, with what I would assume to be identical copies going to the other two field agents shortly after. M looked as serious as she ever did, but behind those steely grey eyes I could see a hint of weariness. This truly must have been getting to her, much more than I had expected.

"I'll keep this brief and to the point, Agent Arc. Within 24 hours, there will be a cargo train departing from Vacuo to Vale. Within 72 hours, it will have reached just north of Vale City, in the vicinity of the Forever Fall forests. Our intelligence operatives have concluded that the White Fang plan to make an example of this cargo train. On board the vessel are the standard troupe of defenses; Atlesian Knight-130 model androids, Spider Droids, as well as human overseers. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem for our organization, given that U.N.C.L.E. usually handles cross-Kingdom crimes. Unfortunately, we have reason to suspect that Code-Name Raging Bull will be present, and while I don't doubt that you two," She said, gesturing towards Neptune and Sun, who simply shrugged in acceptance. "Are capable fighters, Mistralian Intelligence as well as U.N.C.L.E. have concluded that it would be too much of a risk to the operation to send you in solo. Thus, we're lending your organization Agent Arc for the duration of this mission."

It was about what I had expected given the briefing Neptune gave me. The two of them, despite their many faults, were certainly skilled fighters, and with Sun's Semblance their two-man team could rapidly become a six- or even eight-man platoon in a matter of seconds. They were solid field operatives if one forgave the general collateral damage and astoundingly bad luck on menial assignments, but with CN Raging Bull on the scene, plus Oum knows what else, they could definitely be overwhelmed. That's likely where I came in; my martial abilities were a boon on their own, and with my Semblance boosting Sun's, the three of us could rapidly become a whole squadron. Even the White Fang and Raging Bull would be hard-pressed to face that.

The plan wasn't particularly complicated, nor was it much of plan to begin with. I would shadow the two U.N.C.L.E. field agents while they made the initial arrest, and if, or more likely when, things got out of hand with Raging Bull, I would step in and provide support. Simple plans weren't bad, by any means. They often gave me more space to maneuver and shift as the situation itself changed. Nonetheless, I couldn't help but be worried. "Understood, ma'am. What interference, if any, will this have with my previous obligations?" I asked.

M looked rather nonplussed, shrugging her shoulders and letting out a low breath. "There shouldn't be any, Agent Arc. If anything, this will speed up your departure plans by a few days. Once the operation has been concluded, you'll stay in Vale City until the asset in Vale, or more likely their proxy, will reach out to you. Agents Wukong and Vasilias will return to their long-term assignment at Haven Academy. You three likely won't see each other again until at least the Vytal Festival, if even then." I nodded, idly twisting my wristwatch as I fiddled with the controls. You can never have enough back-up tools, after all, and after this I would need to install some lovely little modifications to my wardrobe, time-telling devices included. "Understood. If that will be all, ma'am, I believe Agents Wukong and Vasilias as well as myself ought to get ready. I'll rendezvous with you once the operation has been concluded."

It was a decent enough plan, and I had decent enough comrades for it. So why did I feel so worried?

72 Hours Later...

"I fucking knew this was a bad idea!" I roared out to Neptune, slipping behind the wreckage of at least three Atlesian Knight-130 androids as the ground in front of me was peppered with small-arms fire. Crocea Mors was fully unfolded in one hand, the other holding a standard-issue Mistralian bullpup rifle. Lorica Segmentata had taken a frankly ungodly load of punishment already, and frankly I was dead tired. Above me, I could spot the intense battle between the Spider Droid and Raging Bull, better known as the White Fang Branch Leader Adam Taurus. Their fight had torn half the roof off of our train-car, and the other half was caved in, dangling only by the strength of a few beams.

It had started off rather easily. Around 0600 hours, we had managed to spot Taurus as well as a female companion of his entering the rear-most train-car via climbing the cliffs nearby. Within three minutes, they had disabled all six of the AK-130's stationed on that particular car, before beginning their movement up the train. At this point, Vasilias and Wukong had intervened, springing into combat, stalling the White Fang Branch Leader and the woman with him. Between Sun's staff skills and Neptune's trident, they had managed to keep Adam on his toes for just long enough, the Spider Droid engaging the criminal in a one-on-one that had taken the two up to the rooftops of the moving train.

With Adam occupied, the two U.N.C.L.E. field agents focused their attention on Code-Name Raging Bull's companion. She was some kind of feline faunus, a pale-skinned woman approximately our age. Sun had taken the lead, lashing out with deadly strikes from his staff while Neptune sat back, shifting Tri-Hard into its rifle form and giving support fire when the opportunity arose. The woman was good, I certainly had to give her that. She wielded some sort of variant weapon that relied heavily on mechshifting between forms. Initially it had been a katana that she had used to parry the strikes from Sun's combined staff, before she had shifted it into a sickle. Without hesitating, the White Fang woman had hooked the edge of the sickle around the length of Sun's weapon, and only the Monkey Faunus's quick shifting had saved him from being torn from arm to throat.

Neptune had jumped in, the two switching places as Tri-Hard shifted into a spear to face against the woman's sickle-sword. Or, it would have, had she not lashed out with some sort of ribbon weapon to trap his hands before he could, the weapon shifting again into a pistol. Sun had leaped back into action, his staff now in its segmented form, and deflected the well-aimed shots. The woman huffed, before activating what must have been her Semblance. Within seconds, there were clones of her all around the two of them, their incredible quickness and uniformity allowing for her to confuse the two agents and slip past their weapons entirely.

I was still back in the rafters, watching carefully for an appropriate moment to jump in. While the mission clearly wasn't going so well, there wasn't any need for me to enter the situation quite yet; I was here to keep the two U.N.C.L.E. agents alive first and foremost, not carry out the mission objectives at any cost. It was about this time that an entire section of the roof came loose, half of it nearly blown away entirely by an enraged Adam Taurus. The Spider Droid was hanging precariously by only half of its original four legs, both shoulder cannons and one arm crushed beyond recognition. Code-Name Raging Bull was, as his designation would imply, terrifyingly destructive. Now would be my shot.

I moved fluidly, jumping up and across the length of the car in one smooth motion. My leap landed me right at the edge of the train-car's roof, legs tensed and sword fully unfolded. "You come here often?" I remarked, watching with a barely concealed smirk as the masked White Fang Branch Leader turned to me with fury evident in his body language. Without hesitation, he had lunged towards me, his hands placed in that quick-draw position atop Wilt and Blush that he was so famous for.

For several minutes, we had exchanged blows in relative silence, the only sounds from the rooftops being the grunts of exertion and the clarion clangs of Crocea Mors and Wilt meeting each other. Adam pushed me back, his strikes always certain and always lightning-fast. For a bull Faunus, he certainly moved like a viper. It was all I could do to keep alive as I deflected slash after slash, Crocea Shield coming up every so often to deflect the bullets from Blush.

Adam came in again, moving even faster than before somehow. As he sped towards me, I could clearly see his whole body glowing red, his hand laid carefully over the hilt of Wilt and Blush yet again. It didn't look all too dissimilar from the previous attacks that I had somewhat successfully parried, though the various cuts and bruises littering my body would disagree, but I've learned a few things in my line of work. One of the most important is that when people start glowing weird colors or giving off visible light, there's always one of two options. Either there's some Aura fuckery afoot, or they're activating their Semblance. Given how powerful Taurus already was with his weapons, I really wasn't in the mood to find out what his Semblance could do on top of that.

Taurus was fast, devastatingly so. Certainly faster than I could ever be. What he didn't have, however, was state-of-the-art armor or a "fuck you" sized Aura. I hunched back into a horse-stance, my shield deploying in its full dust-powered form right as his Iaido draw connected. With an incredibly loud clang, Adam's attack was stopped from decapitating me. In that same instance, I let my knees drop and shot one foot out to trap his ankle, allowing his lanky frame to shoot past me as he over-extended and was thrown over my torso. Unfortunately, I had overestimated the strength of the train-car we were both on. It could really only take so much punishment, and the force of Adam's strike that I had stopped carried both of us over the edge.

We fell, tumbling over each other in a mess of limbs and rocks as we slid further and further down the cliff face. At one point, Adam lashed out with his sword, scoring a decisive blow against my armor that took a sizable chunk out of my Aura. I was simply in too much pain to scream audibly, a sort of choked gurgle resounding from my throat instead. When we crashed, we crashed hard, my body toppling end over end as I came to a halt in a cloud of dirt and dust. Adam wasn't too much better off, landing elbow-first with a disgustingly loud snap and creak as his arm was surely pulverized. Heh, served the fucking cow right.

Woozy and weak, I fought to keep my eyes open. My heartbeat was so loud I was half-afraid that I'd be giving my position away just by how hard it was pounding in my chest. Each breath was ragged, the feeling of dozens of knives scraping against the inside of my throat with each exhalation. Already, I could see black encroaching on the edge of the vision, and though I hate to admit it, I blacked out.

I don't really know when I woke up, but it must have been at least an hour, given the position of the sun. Eventually, I stumbled up to a standing position, extending Crocea Mors once again as I shambled over to where Adam had been. Had been is an important phrase, since the clearing we had landed in had a startling lack of angry and hopefully crippled Bull Faunus in it. The fucker must have gotten away!

Biting back a curse, I leaned up against a tree, letting my body fall openly against it as I caught my breath. Lorica Segmentata was at 45% capacity, and I retracted the armor, my charcoal grey suit coming out once more as the segmented plates and thin exoskeleton melded and shifted back into unassuming cloth. The mission was a success in that the train was more or less secured, but Raging Bull had gotten away. He would be out of commission for a while, if the horrific sound of that elbow-first crash was any indicator, but he'd be back within a few weeks and on guard. Security would be even tighter after this so gathering reliable intelligence would be even harder, and it was all I could do not to audibly groan in disgust. What a cluster-fuck this has been.

"Neptune, Sun, do you copy?" I chirped into my wrist-watch, waiting on bated breath for a few moments as I sat there. A soft crackling could be heard a few seconds later, and a muffled response, one I couldn't quite understand. "Vasilias, Wukong, repeat. This is Agent Arc, repeat your position and situation." I waited again, before they came through just clear enough for me to hear. "Agent Arc... Situation calm... Train... Secured... Will regroup." The device must have been crushed during the fall, as I could barely make out what the two were saying. Thankfully, what I could hear was enough to calm my racing heart. The two morons were safe, and the train had been secured. That was good enough for me.

As I slowly made my way up, I took a better look at my surroundings. I was in some kind of clearing within the Forever Fall forest, ancient oaks and pines all around me. The air was refreshingly clear here, nothing like the hustle and bustle of Mistral's capital or half of the urban slums I'm often assigned to. Were it not for the events of the last hour, this would be somewhere incredibly peaceful, the perfect spot for a picnic or a relaxing afternoon out in nature. Well, there were always Grimm, but I don't think a Beowolf is dumb enough to mess with me right now. Well, maybe not.

All around me were trees and verdantly green grass, gnarled roots and brushes growing freely in the spaces between. As I turned, I could see the cliff face that Adam and I had fallen from, a section at least five meters across and a hundred down furrowed through with the evidence of our struggle down the side. Even here there were loose roots, small plants and... a running girl? I cursed quietly, immediately drawing forth Lorica Segmentata again before scrambling up the nearest tree, squatting and taking a lookout position atop a thick branch about ten meters up in the air. It was that girl from the train!

Now that she was closer, and I wasn't fighting for my life, I could get a much better look at the girl. She wore a black buttoned vest with rather stupidly long coattails on the end, a lone silver button keeping the whole impractical thing together. Underneath was a sleeveless turtleneck and shorts, or some kind of bodysuit, with stockings and detached sleeves on her arms and legs. Her hair was long and black, honestly rather fetching if I do say so, and the black bow couldn't quite hide the feline ears twitching in worry and anticipation behind it.

She was racing wildly through the forest, all trace of cool and calm from the train utterly gone. The girl was panting heavily, her weapon in its sword form held with a white-knuckled grip in one hand as she used the other to push aside shrubbery and branches in her way. As she made her way just past the tree I was perched on, I jumped down, landing feet-first with a heavy grunt right atop her. She fell, because of course she did, duh. The girl couldn't be more than 120, maybe 130 pounds. I, on the other hand, am 200 pounds of sheer muscle plus 100 pounds of armor, coming down ten meters of height in free-fall. Of course she fucking fell.

She landed pretty hard too, all the air leaving her body in a sort of strangled grunt as her torso impacted the ground with a muffled thump. Just as soon as I had impacted her, I jumped back slightly, hooking one arm underneath her elbow to drag her around, now facing me. She was clearly dazed, having not expected hundreds of pounds to smash into her from above. Even with an active Aura, there's no way she could have tanked a hit like that. "I know this looks bad, but before you say anything snappy about humans, I promise you I'm all for equal rights for Faunus." I said, watching with a sort of bemused half smile as she drunkenly snarled at me in pain, before I cocked a fist back and lashed out with a cross to her temple that sent her right into the warm and loving embrace of Morpheus. "Equal lefts too."

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A/N: That's all for this chapter! Next time: Jaune uses some Enhanced Interrogation on Shitty Kitty! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) Jaune meets up with Headmaster Ozpin! Jaune... goes shopping for apartment decorations?

Please let me know how I did; if I rushed anything, if there needs to be more dialogue, more fight explanations, etc. I'm not too great with writing in the first person, but I'm always trying to improve!


	5. The Strangest Roommate Interview Ever - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of the new chapter! Part two for this comes out tomorrow, it just felt a lot more natural splitting it up like this.

I moved to Mistral City when I was 12 years old. Sapphron had just finished her undergraduate studies, leaving the city with her computer science degree and then-girlfriend, now current wife, Terra. There had been approximately three weeks of overlap, and we had spent those three weeks gallivanting all over the city, the two grown women taking me to see the sights and sounds of the Mistralian capital. I had stayed with the two of them in their cozy little apartment, certainly nowhere near as luxurious as the high-rise that I now occupied six years later, but it was lovely nonetheless. We felt like a little family, and even back then I could tell that Terra would be a wonderful partner for my eldest sister. Now that I think on it, that was the longest vacation I've had since I was a small child.

One of the most interesting attractions we had visited was a performance art installation involving Dust. It had taken place in a rather dusty warehouse, and at first, Sapphron had been against the idea altogether. A small child, in a place like that, among strangers? It was difficult for her then, and even now I've always made sure to underplay the gory details of my work when I speak to her. Terra, on the other hand, had been just as excited as I was, firmly taking my little hand in hers and dragging all three of us to see the show.

I can't say I remember the details in full clarity, but one scene in particular always stood out to me. We had stood there, a crowd of perhaps a hundred and fifty people, in front of a shallow pool of water. All along the bottom of the basin were intersecting tubes housing lightning Dust, and the conductor had activated the lines housed within. In the span of a moment, the whole pool was a-glow with the stark light of ignited Dust, the lines shifting and activating on the whims of the conductor to play out scenes from various Mistralian folk-tales. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

I would have been satisfied with just that much, but the last few minutes of the installation had been what truly blew me away. One by one, the conductor had collapsed the tubes, letting loose powdered lightning Dust into the pool of water. The artist had surely been a Huntsman or at least an incredibly talented dust manipulator, as they had kept the charged lightning Dust from branching out within the water, as natural lightning was wont to do. Instead, they had manipulated the free-standing lines with their Aura into moving even more fluidly than they had inside the tubing. I was mesmerized, transfixed by what must have been the most incredible usage of fine Aura control and dust manipulation. It had taken my breath away, and I could see instantly that Sapphron and Terra were no different.

Six years later, and I've probably been to a hundred or more shows just like that. In fact, it's become almost a hobby of mine, watching masters of Dust manipulate the finicky element into doing incredible, beautiful things. There's a few bars that most Mistralian Intelligence and high-ranking government employees are known to frequent, and I certainly like those too; I'm a glutton for a drink and I make no moves to hide that. But seeing Dust art has always been my passion, the activity to which I've devoted more free time to than anything else. I've seen everything, from novices fresh out of art academies, to masters of the craft that charge thousands of Lien per ticket.

Of course, I've always been the obsessive sort; once I sink my teeth into something I have a tendency to not let go until I've reached some measure of competence. With my, er, career choice, I don't exactly have too much free time, so I've accepted for a few years now that I'll never have the fine Aura control that the masters of the craft showcase. What I do have, on the other hand, is a frankly absurd amount of Aura, and a Semblance that lets me break a few rules here and there. The results? Thicker tubing that surrounds lines of free-standing powdered Dust, a sheath of Aura that allows me to manipulate the inert Dust with a fluidity that usually takes decades to master.

Why is any of this relevant? Well, as with most party tricks I've picked up in the last half-decade or so, I've weaponized it. Crisscrossed lines of thin powdered lightning and fire Dust, all covered and woven akin to a rope with a sheath of Aura about half an inch thick. Almost completely prehensile, and with a range of free motion that rivals genuine Magic, or at least that's what M had said when I first demonstrated it for her a year ago. I call it Retiarius, and currently it's coiled loosely around my unconscious prisoner. Sorry, make that recently awakened prisoner.

"Eurgh..." She mutters, eyelids slowly fluttering awake at the same time her cat ears begin to twitch. Damn, that's cute. "Have a nice cat nap?" I ask, just barely managing to keep the smug grin off my face. With a start and, I swear to Oum I'm not making this up, a genuine hiss of surprise, she's jolted awake, arms coming out to form a ready stance as her legs kick up to bring her to her feet. Or, that's what would have happened were it not for Retiarius. In reality, she tangles herself even further, tripping and stumbling as the net wraps even more thoroughly around her limbs. I can see the moment of realization in her eyes as she suddenly sways a little too forward, falling flat on her stomach in a mess of arms and legs and netting.

I don't hold back this time, letting out a genuine belly laugh at her situation. She takes this about as well as one would expect, coiling further in on herself to try to push out or at least push away some of the netting as she glares promises of a bloody death at my personage. Real cute, Ms. Terrorist Faunus, but you don't have shit on M, or Oum forbid, my mother.

"It's not exactly a ball of yarn, but I figured this was the closest thing. You have a name, or should I just interrogate you as Ms. White Fang?" I ask, watching as her eyes narrow even further and glance this way and that, for what I assume would be an opening. "Ah, no use in doing that, ma'am. You're welcome to try, of course, but I doubt you'll find the results very pleasing." I speak in a rather no-nonsense tone this time, her body language stiffening even further as she realizes that she's well and truly caught, at least for now. I'm sure she'll make an attempt at escape sometime in the next few seconds if not the next minute, but I at least have her attention for now.

"So, a name?" I prod again. She has the gall to simply snarl at me this time, the nerve! "You're not doing much for the Faunus reputation here, ma'am. I'm not asking for your measurements here, but a man does have to fill out paperwork and names are rather important for that."

She stares balefully at me, before managing to (finally!) bite out a reply. "Am I under arrest?" Oh, the humanity! I can't hold it in; a harsh laugh roars out of me. "Are... are you serious right now? Yes, you're under fucking arrest. What part of robbing a train and engaging in terrorist attacks wouldn't put you under arrest?!" She flinches noticeably at that, staring down with the sort of open eyes and blank expression that a professional would associate with shell-shock, or a traumatic stress disorder.

"Listen, ma'am. I don't know what you're involved in, or what you do or have done. Right now, all I know is that you destroyed a train car alongside one of Vale's most wanted criminals, an international terrorist I might add, and violently fought off two government agents. You blasted through at least half a dozen Atlesian government androids with what has got to be a Huntsman-class weapon, knocked out several civilians, and caused at least four million Lien, if not more, in damage to a Schnee Dust Company train, with whom all four of the Kingdoms contract, I might add. Practically any single one of these charges carries a long sentence in a maximum-security facility. Can I please at least get a name before I have to ship you out to some barred windows and metal cots hell-hole?"

The Faunus terrorist winces at each sentence, seemingly folding in on herself in shame and fright as I continue my short lecture. By the end of it, she's scrunching her eyes tightly, and I fear she may start hyper-ventilating, or worse, crying. I'm really not cut out for crying girls, as much as I may like to claim otherwise. Beringels and Nevermores, sure. Those I can handle. Terrorist plots too. But a pretty girl crying is... decidedly more difficult to deal with.

After a few tense moments where I fear I may have to confront the dreaded waterworks, she simply lets out a shuddering breath, before whispering. "Blake... my name is Blake Belladona." It takes years of training, which I will admit I absolutely half-assed, not to let out a groan to the Brothers. Of course, it's just my fucking luck that I get stuck with an ex-terrorist who just so happens to be the daughter of what is basically Faunus royalty. Just my fucking luck.

I let out a sort of nervous chuckle, one lone traitorous hand reaching behind my head in the tic that I had tried so hard to suppress. "Okay, uh, good. Blake, that's a good start." I absolutely refuse to verbally admit her last name, to confront the absolute cluster-fuck of a situation this is shaping out to be. "Alright, Blake, we can start at the beginning, but I'm just going to ignore all that and cut right to the chase here. Why are you running away from the train?"

Her head whips up at me in shock, those long black locks bouncing rather elegantly as she fixes me with the sort of wide-eyed, white-knuckled look that's usually a precursor to horrible violence or very passionate shouting. Frankly, I'm not in the mood for either at this point, and move quickly to work past her. "We have all the intelligence we needed for the actual train robbery, and given your last name I'm not going to wade into the mess that is you being involved in the Fang in the first place; best to leave that to the professionals. And yes, you are going to see professional interrogators for this." I add, one hand reaching out to grasp an end of Retiarius in case she decides to flee at that. Instead, she simply sinks again, her eyes seemingly hollow as she takes in great shuddering breaths. "Instead," I say. "Let's talk about why you're running. Is Adam setting you up for an operation inside Vale? Meeting up with local Fang branches, perhaps?" I ask, staring rather blankly at her tense form.

"I'm not doing any of that!" She insists, a spark of that initial energy still apparently present. I simply quirk an eyebrow in response, as if to ask 'oh really?' She looks away from my gaze, unable to keep up with the fish-eyed stare I've been nailing her with this entire time. Or, at least when I'm not laughing or wanting to curse Oum above. "Alright, Ms. Belladonna. What are you doing?"

She mumbles at first. "Care to repeat that?" I ask, my hand tightening around the end of the net weapon to show her that it's no time for teenage antics or sullen bullshit. I need to figure this situation out sooner rather than later. "I'm leaving the Fang!" She bites out, nearly screaming in my face. Oh, well... that's certainly interesting.

Instead of responding to that, I simply pull on the net with my thumb and palm, my four other fingers waving through the air as I manipulate the tubing of Aura that surrounds the inert dust. As if by magic, she rises from the air, or rather she's pulled up by the weave of net that she's tangled within, coming to a rest atop me not unlike a very attractive black-haired sack of potatoes.

"What are you doing!" She screeches, lashing out with feet and hands that I deftly avoid. "Taking you to a safehouse," I simply reply. What she doesn't need to know is that I have absolutely no fucking clue what to do from here. I need to contact M, I need to meet with Ozpin, and I need to figure out what to do with this apparently ex-terrorist. Too many options, not enough info. Time to leave.

And that was how I found myself wandering out of the Forever Fall forest and into Vale City proper, with a yelling and kicking cat Faunus slung over my shoulder, whistling an old Mistralian tune. I'm sure M will fucking love this.

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As always, please read and review. Next part: Jaune meets with Ozpin! Jaune goes apartment shopping with his new captive/roommate! Jaune lewds the Shitty Kitty! (sorta) 


	6. The Strangest Roommate Interview Ever - Part 2

On average, it takes a civilian with an awakened Aura about an hour and a half at a light jog to reach from the outskirts of the Forever Fall Forest to the gates of Vale City proper, great hulking monstrosities of light grey stone and metal. I weigh well above the average civilian, with about a hundred pounds of armor and equipment and an indeterminable (for the sake of my mental and physical health, I'm not even going to try) mass of cat Faunus slung over my shoulder. I've been in an armed shootout that ended in grave physical injury for both myself and the other combatant, my exoskeleton is at less than half of its operating power, functioning more as dead-weight than anything else, and I will again point out, because this is important, that I have a very awake and very annoyed girl wrapped up in an electrified net weapon dangling over the side of my shoulder the whole way there. Suffice it to say, it did not take me an hour and a half to reach the gates of Vale City.

What felt like an eternity but was in reality about three hours later, I'm at the gates, and Ms. Belladonna is still as vocally upset as I assume she always is. Real big fan of sulking and pouting, that one is. The guards are justifiably rather spooked at seeing a man pushing two hundred pounds, with a sword in one hand and captive in the other whistling and dancing a merry jig as he hauls his fine ass back into civilization. Said fine man with said fine ass is me, of course, but the sandy-haired fellow manning the check-in station doesn't quite see it that way, nearly discharging his standard issue Valean Guardsman's Rifle in my general direction upon first sight.

I tucked my sword back into its sheath at my back, the blade of Crocea Mors retracting as the whole weapon settles comfortably into the rectangle that is the shield's compressed form. "Lovely afternoon gentlemen," I call out, my now-free hand fishing around in the breast pocket of my jacket. They stiffen even further at that, another Guardsman now openly aiming at me. "Ah, relax, boys. Just grabbing my papers." I say, mostly to assuage them. Even at this point in my exhaustion, a couple of two-bit Guardsmen aren't exactly going to be a huge threat, but more hassle means more distance between me and a soft bed and a stiff drink. It also means more paperwork, as I'm sure M and more likely Headmaster Ozpin and the Vale Council won't take too kindly to federal employees getting thrashed by a strange man in a suit.

After a few testy seconds, the only noise being the light ruffling of my hand in my pocket, I manage to withdraw the requisite papers and identification, presenting them to the distrustful gaze of the Guardsman at the check-in station. He takes them almost skittishly, a hand darting out in front of the thick bullet-proof glass case and drawing back in just as quickly to retrieve the documents I provided. Blake has thankfully stopped yammering at this point, slinking over the end of my shoulder rather akin to a cat and staring dully at the gates, and what lays within.

After a few minutes, Vale's finest have apparently scanned through my identification papers and not found them wanting. "Ah, are you going to be entering the city with your weapons, sir?" One Guardsman stammers out, clutching his rifle all the tighter. I just smile disarmingly at him, patting my back where Crocea Mors and the shield are kept, before squatting down a few inches and hefting Blake off of my shoulder in one smooth motion. She yelps, before hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs and a strangled grunt of surprise. The net-weapon that forms Retiarius unfurls, the inert (for now) powdered lightning and fire Dust mixture coiling around itself until it forms a vaguely spherical mass, my Aura cocooning around the ball and directing it into an open container at my hip. I keep about a kilogram of the stuff on me at all times, which is enough for a Retiarius net in each hand should I somehow lose Crocea Mors or whatever gun I've got on hand at the time.

"Yes, I'll be entering with my weapons, gentlemen. That won't be a problem, will it? I believe I've attached all the required documents for that, no?" I ask, an easy smile still on my face. The Guardsman at the check-in station files through the small stack of papers I had presented him, no doubt looking for my official Mistralian Security pass. After a few moments, he finds the small card, no bigger than my driver's license and about twice as thick. The Guardsman looked it over, before handing me the entire stack carefully. He's still got that look on his face, halfway between crapping his pants in fear and wanting to shoot me in distrust. Everybody's a critic these days, I suppose.

"We hope you enjoy your stay in Vale, sir." He manages to choke out, a white-knuckled grip still on his rifle. I simply snort, letting loose a wry chuckle as I gently guide Blake and myself through the slowly opening gates. She's still rather numb from the bumpy ride, and it takes a few seconds for her to work the feeling back into her legs and keep up with my rather long strides. The black-haired Faunus had grabbed onto her weapon as soon as she had gotten free; solid survival instincts at the very least. Or at least, as solid of survival instincts as one can have when they willingly decide to side with Adam Taurus, I suppose.

"You ever been to Vale before, Ms. Belladonna?" I ask, mostly to pass the time. We're walking through the first sector of the city now, primarily industrial buildings and the odd shop or two. It's not dusty or anything, Vale being rather clean and crime-free all things considered, but it's obviously one of the lower-class sections of the city, and the faded brick and mortar of buildings around us shows that quite clearly. My companion simply narrows her eyes in distrust at me, only the harsh reminder of our initial meeting keeping her hands from straying towards her strange combination weapon. For a moment I think she's simply not going to respond, intent on ignoring me altogether, before I hear her speak for the first time in hours.

"No, I can't say I have." Her voice is still sore from the stress of the day, her tone guarded and soft. I simply offer her a small smile, beckoning for the beautiful Faunus to keep following after me. "Well," I respond. "I've been a few times. Not many, mind you, but enough to have a general sense of direction. We're going to walk for a few more blocks east, then I'm going to make a call and most likely we'll get a cab and get you to a safehouse, alright?" The time for harsh interrogations and electrified net weapons is clearly over; now it's just a very tired girl who probably made some split-second decisions that dramatically altered her life next to me. A gentler touch is perhaps needed.

She nods stiffly, and we simply walk in silence for a few minutes. Just as I had promised, after five blocks we had moved from the lower-class districts into what appeared to be a shopping mall, massive lots for parking and a four-story complex that housed at least a hundred stores. Our destination was the parking garage itself, the two of us making our way past the doors and into the elevator itself. Blake looked rather confused. "You said we were going to a safe-house!" She accused me, her hand flexing and un-flexing as she fought the urge to reach for her weapon. I smiled again, before pushing a very specific sequence of buttons. The door for the fire-alarm system opened with a hydraulic hiss, and I reached in again for my breast pocket, pulling out my security pass. One card swipe later and the small door closed. "We are." I simply replied, enjoying the dulcet tones of elevator music as we descended six floors.

The parking garage, as I'm sure my companion noticed by now, only had buttons for four floors of subterranean space, plus a tiny fifth floor that functions as a closet for maintenance supplies more than anything. This apparently non-existent sixth floor was our goal, and probably my home for the next few days, at least until Ozpin and M gave me leave to find an apartment. As the elevator doors opened, we were greeted by the sight of a standard, if somewhat large, U.N.C.L.E. safehouse. The living-space was rather large, an open-air affair that combined living room, kitchen and foyer all in one with an enormous screen and computer dominating one entire wall. There were two bedrooms off to one side, their doors closed to us at the moment, and in the center of the house was a couch. Said couch housed my two least-favorite occasional coworkers, one of whom was bandaging the other.

Neptune flinched as the doors of our elevator opened, his hand going a little tight over the gauze he had been applying to Sun. The monkey faunus yelped as the bandage was wound too tight, his head turning as if on a swivel to stare at us, before a big beaming smile overtook his face. "Jaune, you're back! What happened out there?" He shouted, jumping up fluidly and ignoring the stumbling and nagging of his partner as he bounded over to us. I gave the two agents a stiff nod, before moving to the side and letting Blake walk out of the elevator and in to the little safe-house as well. 

My coworkers' responses were... not great. Sun jumped back as quickly as he had walked over, carefully biting away the barely hidden groan that had arisen when he agitated his prior bruises. In a flash, his twin staves were in hand, his prehensile tail curled over his shoulder. Neptune was even worse, practically diving over the coffee table in front of the couch they were previously occupying and leveling Tri-Hard in its rifle form at my companion. "Jaune," Neptune started with a rather wary tone. "What is she doing here?" 

I put up both my hands in a placating manner, choosing to ignore the way Blake had reacted, her weapon mechshifting into its gun mode and pointed back at Neptune as she took up a stance behind me. "Everybody, please relax. We've got a weird situation here, and I need to make a call. Neptune, Sun, just take care of your wounds for now. Blake, no shooting, please?" The three hardly let up, each still poised and ready to strike at the first sign of trouble. I really don't need this fucking stress right now, I swear. 

Neptune raised his head slightly, breaking position away from aiming his rifle as he glanced over at us. Sun was second to follow, his tail visibly relaxing as he twirled the staves idly, letting them click together into one staff that he carefully put back on the couch, not breaking eye contact with Blake for even a moment. The ex-terrorist was last to acquiesce, pointing her weapon down towards the ground and slipping her finger off of the trigger, though not putting it away quite yet. Well, it's a start, I suppose. 

The rather tense situation at least somewhat defused for now, I walked forward, my body moving on auto-pilot as I ran through the necessary steps to prepare fresh coffee. After a minute or so of staring at each other balefully, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and my wayward captive/companion relaxed as well, Sun walking stiffly over to the couch where he laid down once again. Neptune, thankfully without his rifle in hand, went back to treating the cuts and scrapes that his partner had accrued. And Blake went back to stiffly following after me, attempting to stare holes into the back of my head. Yes, I can tell, no it's not working, you silly girl. If M and my mom couldn't make me spontaneously combust with a stare, I highly doubt some ex-terrorist with attachment issues can. 

It takes a few minutes to make coffee from scratch. There's the coffee-maker, of course, but I've learned to eschew that in favor of a glass brewer. Frankly, it's not that difficult. Coffee beans get ground on a mortar and pestle, a paper filter is inserted into the brewer and moistened with hot water, grinds go into paper filter, water goes in, and eventually, out drips coffee. No mess, no fuss, and a small but very important dollop of honey makes my life all that much more worth living. I took a sip, closing my eyes as I simply stood still and enjoyed the smooth and balanced flavor. "You, uh, you want a glass, Blake?" I offered. 

She nodded shyly, taking the offered second cup a few minutes later. For nearly ten minutes we stood there, silently enjoying the coffee after a long day at work. As with all good things though, the delectable refreshment had to end, and I sighed almost exaggeratedly as the cup came past horizontal across my lips. "Well, I don't know about you, but I needed that. Let's get you set up in a bedroom, alright? Take whichever one you want, lie down for a bit. I need to make a call, and we're going to get this all figured out, alright?" She still looked rather frazzled, and Oum knows I can't blame her for it, but this last few minutes has gone a long way towards building at least a modicum of trust. Enough that she won't sprint out the elevator at the first chance? Maybe, I don't know. But enough for her to follow my suggestion and take residence in one of the two rooms. 

Sun and Neptune left shortly afterwards, something about needing to send in their reports to U.N.C.L.E headquarters and be back to Haven. Good thing I don't have to go undercover as a student, man that would suck! 

Finally, the moment of judgement. I walked over to the wall where the screen and computer stood, punching in my log-in info with practiced ease. A few moments later, and I'm accompanied by the dull ringing of a scroll call, waiting for the other end to pick up. One ring, two, three, and a fourth go unanswered before the man at the other end of the call picks up, and all of a sudden my very large screen is taken up by a truly impressive visage. 

He's perhaps four or five inches taller than I am, with none of the bulk or mass. I would go as far as to call him thin, spindly even. Grey hair, almost to the point of shining silver, in a rather tousled manner not dissimilar to my own. A pair of small circular sunglasses sitting across a sharp nose, half-hiding bright brown eyes and jet-black eyebrows. Interesting, a sign of premature aging perhaps? Either that or hair dye, I would imagine. He's sitting behind an opulent desk, all varnished oak and little knick-knacks from his tenure, fingers steepled together in front of his face. Interestingly enough, I can spy faint wisps of steam coming from just out of frame; a fellow connoisseur of hot beverages. 

He's dressed rather elegantly, an open black suit jacket atop a dark green vest, a light green silk shirt and a verdant cowl with a cross pin at the center, tucked into his shirt like some strange sort of ascot. Not a fan of ties? I can relate. After a few seconds of mutual silence, I realize that I'm staring rather intently at him, and he's doing much the same at me. "I would assume you're Headmaster Ozpin, correct?" I state to break the ice, so to speak. 

He smiles rather enigmatically, before nodding sharply. "Indeed I would be, Mr. Arc. I must say, I was expecting your call in a day or so, though of course I'm not displeased by your preemptive measures to make contact. I do have to wonder, what would be the cause?" Perceptive, thy name is Ozpin. 

I coughed lightly into my fist, clearing away a bit of the tiredness and grime of the day, before continuing. "Some things came up in the last twenty-four hours that required me to get to a safe-house for a short rest and recuperation. I'm sure you're a very busy man, so I thought it best to get this out of the way and leave you to your duties, sir." 

Ozpin looked askance, one hand gently untangling itself from the other to reach for the beverage off-screen, before bringing into frame what was probably the most ridiculous mug I had ever seen. It was wide, almost comically so, a huge grey cup more akin to a bowl with a handle and the words "I Heart Beacon" engraved across the top. The man took a long sip, clearly savoring the beverage, before putting it down, the words staring me right in the face. "Excuse me, Mr. Arc, I feel my voice can be rather dry this time of year. Ah, coffee, one of life's greatest joys." I weakly smiled back at him, hoisting my own now-empty cup in camaraderie. If anything, his smile seemed to grow at that, a genuine grin stretching across his face. "A fellow caffeinator, I see! How lovely, Mr. Arc. Your peers seem to prefer their sugary confections and processed energy drinks nowadays, but it's a pleasure to see a young man who abides by the classics. Ah, but I suppose we didn't come here to discuss delicious beverages, after all." His voice turned rather serious at that, his hands steepling once again as he leaned forward in his chair to stare at me from behind his tiny sunglasses. "What has changed, Mr. Arc?" 

I swallowed reflexively, truly aware for the first time just who this man was, and what he had done. The image of a genial educator and whimsical headmaster was well-crafted, to be sure, but Ozpin was a peerless Huntsman himself, not to mention a political powerhouse within Vale. The council could speak out the sides of their necks all they wanted, they could raise any sort of fuss that they wished to, but without Ozpin and his academy Vale was little more than bloated bureaucracy and a city on a hill. Toothless. Weak. Unguarded. 

"After meeting with Agents Vasilias and Wukong, the U.N.C.L.E. and Mistralian Intelligence joint task-force was able to push back the terrorist code-name Raging Bull and secure the SDC train and its cargo. Damages are primarily superficial, and real shrinkage of SDC assets, namely Dust, was minimized to the best of our ability. Costs for repairs of the train and replacement of the automated defense systems are estimated to be within 4 million Lien altogether." So far Ozpin was simply listening, scratching down a few numbers into his scroll. I continued. "After engaging personally with code-name Raging Bull, the two of us were blown off course into the Forever Fall forest, where the terrorist sustained serious but non-life-threatening wounds, primarily a shattered arm. I would estimate several weeks to full recovery, assuming no infection or severe bone fragmentation. Approximately two hours later, I apprehended a runaway, claiming to be fleeing from code-name Raging Bull specifically and the White Fang organization generally. After securing her, I brought her to this safe-house, designated as VSZ-0021, where we currently are. I need to rendezvous with both yourself and M in order to get her to an interrogator within Valean jurisdiction, and to receive the specifics of my mission from you, sir." 

After that, I simply petered off into silence, waiting for a response from the enigmatic Headmaster. Ozpin didn't quite answer at first, still clearly thinking things through, before he set his hands down, leaning back slightly to his original position. "I see, Mr. Arc." He said, diverting one hand back to his scroll for a few seconds. "And the captive's name? I imagine you could have called in for an extradition back to Mistral, what with Agents Vasilias and Wukong with you. But you didn't; you've brought her to a safe-house and kept her under the implicit protection of three Intelligence Officers, yourself included. She's clearly someone important, isn't she?" He asked, smiling that not-so-nice smile again. 

I gulped, nodding once, not trusting myself to keep from saying something snarky. "Yes, sir... Her name is Blake Belladonna." At this he simply sighed, nodding as if it was obvious all along. Could it have been? I have no idea what sort of security this man has set up within Vale, or even the Forever Fall forest. Could he have tailed me somehow? Before the thoughts could run wild in my head, Ozpin put up one hand, exhaling loudly through his nose in a sigh yet again. "I see, Agent Arc. Well, that is rather convenient indeed." What, convenient? How? 

"I'm not sure I quite understand, sir." I replied, my confusion rather evident by my tone. He smiled, bringing his stupidly large mug back up to his lips for another drink, before responding in an altogether too cheeky tone. "You're in luck, Agent. Ms. Belladonna has sent in an application to Beacon Academy, and has been accepted as a Huntress Trainee. I'm sure you'll be able to get whatever information out of her that you need." 

What does that have to do with anything? I knew I was going to be working in Vale, and more likely than not working under Ozpin directly, but I wasn't aware of a job within Beacon Academy itself. "I'm, uh, still not sure I'm following you, Headmaster." 

The smugness in his tone was almost cloying. "Well, Mr. Arc, it's rather simple really. I have need of you on Beacon Academy grounds for the next few months as part of the assignment you've undertaken. I'm sure your skills will help you blend in rather easily, and there's a more than likely chance you'll be seeing the young Ms. Belladonna quite often in our hallowed halls."

What is he trying to get at here? I'm tired, the caffeine still hasn't quite hit me yet, and my body hurts. My equipment needs to be repaired, my sword needs to be sharpened and oiled (no, not that one!) and I desperately need a night of sleep at this point. "Sir," I managed to bite out. "With all due respect, please just say what you're trying to say. I've had a very long day." 

He smiled, tapping his cup with his index finger lightly. "Please do give Ms. Belladonna my congratulations as well. On behalf of the staff, we'd like to formally welcome you both to the Beacon Academy for Huntsmen and Huntresses. Initiation is in three days." With that, he cut off the connection, plunging the once-bright room into almost total darkness. I stood up, my brain not quite making the connections. Or rather, it was stubbornly refusing to, because no way in hell am I going to a school with a bunch of green brats! 

"Oh god," I whispered, my eyes widening. "I sound like my fucking drill instructor." And with that, I silently opened the left-most cabinet in the kitchen, retrieving two glasses and the bottle within, and made my way to the bedroom Blake had taken residence in. A quiet knock later and I walked in, noting with the bare minimum of conscience that Blake had taken off her stupid vest-jacket hybrid and laid there in an undershirt and pants. She stirred slightly, half-asleep, before bolting up and looking at me. I just sort of stared back at her like a dead fish, my face expressionless, a bottle in one hand and two glasses held loosely by the flutes in the other.

"We're celebrating," I drawled out in the most deadpan voice I could muster. "You like Vale Bourbon?" Yes, it is a work-day. Yes, it is still technically in the afternoon. And yes, I need a double-shot right this fucking instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aaaaaaand chapter done! Next chapter: Shitty Kitty opens up a little! Blake and Agent Arc go shopping! Blake and Agent Arc foil a Dust Robbery! Agent Arc has a lovely conversation with an older woman and meets Ozpin in the flesh! Said older woman is less than amused.
> 
> As always, please leave a review; it means a lot and will help me better my writing. Next piece I'm working on for hopefully tonight or tomorrow morning is the first chapter of my RWBY Kink prompt quest.


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